


Love is a Four-Letter Word

by wanderingrebel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingrebel/pseuds/wanderingrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a glimpse into John's head, a year after Sherlock's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is a Four-Letter Word

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. Thank you for stopping by to read this.  
> It’s loosely based on a work I read (fleetingly) but it’s still my very own.  
> I’d love comments and kudos (pretty please?)  
> Kate xxxxxx

I linger for a sign, any indication that you might be still alive.  
Dusk is my hour with you, the time we usually unwound, sprawled across our cozy flat in Baker Street after a good day’s work where you lay lost in your agile mind and I wrote my blog, annoying you immensely.  
I endeavor to bring you a peculiar, hybrid flower every day, for you were everything but monotonous and I perch my day’s exhaustion on the damp grass beside your grave. I struggle to maintain a calm demeanor, yet I must sustain this excruciating ritual I chose for myself, as a small repayment of your support and how you transformed my mundane life. I strive to update you with the news, the interesting pieces of course and of my work but mostly, I only smile bleakly and implore you to quit being dead. I remember you once sighed, “Ah, breathing, breathing is boring,” but I need to you breathe, however much you may suffer from ennui in this mortal world.  
They told me to hold on, to let time pass and eventually, it would not hurt as much. I am weary of waiting. I am still consumed by ache, the raw sting of losing the only person I felt happy with. At night, I am haunted by you, walking to your empty chair and praying to espy you sprawled on it. I never do.  
I have begun fearing each four-letter word. 

Fine  
“Are you alright, John?”  
Sherlock peered at him, his brow furrowed quizzically.  
Gasping, John slumped on the sofa, “Oh, God.”  
“John?” Sherlock echoed, perching himself next to John.  
“It’s not alright, Sherlock! Moriarty’s playing an evil game with you, they all think you’re –“  
“The villain, I know,” Sherlock cut in. “I know, John.”  
“What are you going to do about that? Everyone’s doubting you.”  
“Do you doubt me?” Sherlock asked.  
“Of course I don’t!”  
“Then it does not matter.”  
“But they think you’re a fraud – “  
“As long as you don’t doubt me, it’s all fine, John.”  
 _No, Sherlock, it is not fine; I haven’t been fine since you left.  
I am alone._

Fall  
“What did Moriarty want?” John demanded, pacing agitatedly around the flat.  
“He told me he owed me a fall?” Sherlock didn’t look at him.  
“He owes you a fall.” John repeated, flummoxed. “What is that supposed to mean?”  
Sherlock sighed, “It’s a warning.”  
“I figured that out,” John sat down, pressing his temple. “What is he going to do?”  
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said.  
 _He did owe you a fall, Sherlock, and you knew what it meant. Why did you lie?_  
Why did you not trust me enough?  
I only inflicted catastrophe on myself, when I muse the reason of your reticence. I shall never know why.

John  
“Keep your eyes fixed on me, John.”  
John could see Sherlock standing on the roof, but he wouldn’t, he could never jump. “What’s going on, Sherlock?”  
“This is my note, John.”  
John could hear the fear in Sherlock’s trembling voice, he could hear him thinking, his breath becoming ragged and painful. “Please, John.”  
 _That was the last time you uttered my name. I cannot bear anyone else saying it now.  
What if it kills them, too?_

Dead  
“You told me once that you weren’t a hero and heroes didn’t exist. “ John’s eyes were bloodshot. “You were a hero, Sherlock; you were the most human person I knew, the best and the most brilliant man –.”  
John couldn’t continue. Weeping, he lay down a bouquet beside the grave. “Please don’t be dead, Sherlock. Just one more miracle, please don’t be dead.” He spoke through the lump in his throat.  
I believe in heroes, Sherlock, not miracles. Not anymore.  
Meeting you was a miracle, and with you dead, I cannot exist.  
I am a breathing corpse.  
Please don’t be dead.

Fact  
“I know you’re an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help, because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid.” Sherlock exhaled, exuberantly. He glanced at John, looking flabbergasted.  
 _Here’s a fact, Sherlock, I am all that. That was brilliant deduction._  
You’re dead and I cannot live without you – fact.  
I wish you had deduced this.

Time  
“It’ll get easier, John.” Lestrade consoled.  
“Do you want a cuppa, John, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked her face tear-streaked and her voice quivery.”  
John didn’t think he would be able to talk.  
“Time heals all wounds, John. It will get better.” She patted his back.  
 _Time may heal all wounds, Sherlock, but the scars never fade away._  
You are an open, bleeding gash, even after all this time.  
I suspect you will always be one.

Love  
“Love is merely a distraction.” Sherlock grimaced, repulsed by the very idea.  
John laughed, “It’s a welcome distraction.”  
“Oh, what idiocy,” Sherlock gave John a disdainful look. “All the poetry you write to your girlfriend, it’s utter drivel.”  
Turning pink, John looked away. “Damn, I need a new password,” he muttered under his breath.  
 _The poetry, Sherlock, it wasn’t for my girlfriend, it was for you._  
I love you.  
I love you.  
I love you.


End file.
